“Some afternoon. He had his sections of the Siegfried map folded in his pocket, and he squatted up with his legs crossed like an Indian idol while she lay prone beside him and followed every movement of his indicatory finger. He sat back in an easy chair with a hand upon each of the elbows, and looked steadfastly into the fire. ‘This is not love, Marthe. What he told the vicomte I was not privileged to learn. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners.
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